Battle for the Sun
by Bookrush39
Summary: They were overpowered by The Night King and all hope seemed to be lost. Bran hatches a crazy idea. As Jon awakes in Winterfell almost a decade prior, he is set on winning the Long Night. His is mind is older, his knowledge larger, and instead of carrying around shame, he carries around pride. Jon will stop at nothing to stop the Long Night. Moved to Ao3, no longer updated on here
1. Jon I

**Jon I**

The sun must have not been a good swordsman, considering it hadn't fought itself to the sky for years now. Instead, the dark heaviness of the snow clouds blocked the light out, pummeled the star far beneath the horizon where no Westorosi could be gifted with its glorious rays. The clouds must've wounded the sun, either in body or in pride, because it seemed as if the darkness was everlasting, neverending. The clouds set the entire nation into perpetual gloom. It wearied faces, paled skin, and made everyone go about sluggishly, as if moving through molasses. Perhaps they hadn't seen the light for so long that they had unwillingly joined the side of the clouds. Perhaps every frown aided the darkness, added to the thick blanket of dismal shadow, and weakened the sun. If so, the sun would never fight its way to the sky again.

Despite these ponderings, Jon Snow was tired. Tired and grim. At first, when he still remembered how the sun felt on his skin (warm and soft and light), he had put up a facade of optimism. But alas, not even he bothered with that anymore.

The Night King was winning. There was no doubt. He and his army gained stronger by the day, fueled by the surplus of the crimson blood of his friends and the bone-chilling cold of the Long Night. Every day they fought tooth and nail, every day their ranks grew smaller and their enemy's grew larger.

Winning was near impossible. Valyrian Steel was sparse, and Dragonglass was brittle. Their horses have long died, too costly to take care of and their protein-rich meat too precious. Nightmares (or were they premonitions?) plagued every man and woman in the land and left the nation sleep-deprived, temperamental, and lethargic. Somehow, though, through this heaviness, arose a plan. A plan so out of this world that it could only stem from a people so desperate, tired, and cold. A plan that might be their only shot at winning, and a plan that just might work.

The weirwood tree stood ancient, powerful. A beacon of hope shining through the snow. Its red leaves stood out. Before this tree had come into view, it seemed like the world was without color, everything grey and black and white and _listless. _It was nice to see something red. Other than blood, that is. Bran sat, his eyes staring intently at the tree.

"If the gods are willing," he started, his voice flat, "and if my power proves true, you can stop the long night before it even begins."

He turned to look at Jon, his empty gaze chilling, "Time will be turned back. Father will be alive. Arya, Sansa, Rickon, Mother. Daenerys, Jaime, Tormund. They will all be alive and unknowing of the night to come. The Long Night must be known, be feared, if it will be thwarted, but Jon, there are also things better off unknown."

Bran, as stoic as always, turned back around to face the tree, and Jon is left unsettled. He wanted this, wanted it so, so much. He wanted it with every fiber of his being, with every beat of his heart. He wanted his family, his friends. He wanted the _sun, _the _light,_ the _hope_ in which he once had_, _but his little brother's words were still unsettling. How was he, a single man, who would not yet be grown in body, but all too old in mind, stop the thousands of deaths and traitorous actions which now haunted him? How was he, a man so small, to stop events so large, so imposing? And most importantly, how was he to know what to do, if his actions would actually benefit the cause?

The answer was simple: he wasn't to know. He would go in blind, with only the memory of death on his mind and his family at his fingertips. _It sounds so little,_ Jon thought, _but_ _death and family just might be the most powerful incentives there are_. He felt Bran's disquieting stare on him once more, and the weight of his eyes upon him brought Jon out of his doom-filled reverie.

"You know what I need for the spell to start."

Bran's monotone words formed a statement, leaving Jon no doubt of the Raven's all-knowing. He did know what Bran needed., after all. Unhesitant, but with slight wariness, he drew a knife from his scabbard, trying not to look Bran in the eyes.

"The blood of old Valyria," Jon muttered as the blade slit the skin on his palm. The pain, although present, blended in with the fierce cold air, leaving his hand with a prickling sensation. He paused a second in morbid fascination, watching the deep scarlet pool into his pale hand. Jon could feel Bran's expectant eyes on him, so he stepped closer to the weirwood, and flipped his hand so that the blood dripped onto the tree's ashen bark.

He spared a glance at Bran when the weight of the Raven's eyes seemed to move elsewhere. His head was tilted back at the cloudy sky, his eyes a startling milky white. The greenseer seemed to be vibrating with the old energy of the godswood, his chest moving up in down in quick breaths. He started to chant in a tongue unknown to Jon, and, as he presumed, unknown to everyone but the Three-Eyed-Raven for centuries. It was deep and guttural, and formed a pit in Jon's stomach. The godswood seemed to thrum around him in an unseen power, the air alight with magick. Jon let his eyelids droop shut for a moment, letting the magik and energy wash over him like a spring breeze, soft, yet powerful. Old, yet young.

The ever-turning of his mind and his thoughts of the impending battle turned his focus back to the present. Soon enough, he will be waking to the sunrise in Winterfell, but now, he was a battle to fight.

He walked back into camp, trekking through the increasing snow that blanketed Westeros. The snow was thick, wet, sticky, and heavy, very much unlike the soft and light snow summer flurries brought. It fell down in sheets, and froze your eyelashes and numbed your nose. As Jon shuffled through the deep snow, the people in the encampment's eyes follow his frame, silently stopping whatever meager activities they were doing before he made his presence known.

"The Night King is the closest he's ever been," Jon is past sugar-coating and pleasantries. They all are. "He marches with an army of our friends, our family, our comrades, our leaders. They don't hesitate in striking us down, so we will not either."

He eyes scan the somber faces of the crowd, knowing that, logically, there will be some form of hesitation. Even he hesitated when he had to take his sharp blade to Daenerys.

"If all goes to plan, we will be waking up years in the past. We will be waking with the sun in our eyes. This could very well be the last battle we fight in the darkness. And the darkness is oppressive. It lays over us all as if it were the sky itself, pervading. But it is not the sky. We know that because we have seen the sky, no matter how long ago. We have seen the sky turn colors when the sun rises, or sets. We have seen it cerulean, with drifting clouds feathery. Prepare yourselves. Fight in the darkness, but battle for the sun."

"Hear! Hear!" A wilding's voice raised from the crowd, along with a puff of visible breath, and soon enough the entire camp repeated him, shouting his words to the heavens. Jon allowed a small smile to grace his face. Oh, it's been so long since he smiled last!

He forced himself to clear his throat, the crowd quieting into hushed murmurs, then to quiescence. He was silent for a moment, and the world felt still. No gale blew, no animal moved. It felt like the Earth itself was holding its breath. And somehow, that stillness, that silence, filled him with a small spark of confidence. Even the wilderness was waiting for him to speak

"Gather your weapons, gather your armor, gather your pride. If this is the last battle, we might as well show them how they may have broken us, but they have not shattered us to unrepair. We will be taking the offensive."

Jon's last sentence is met with confused glances and a low buzz of conversation, but he keeps on speaking, knowing they will soon understand.

"We will charge them with our small dragonglass daggers, and our bruised faces, and they will be thinking "_Fools. What fools these people are!" _And we are fools. But we are fools with nothing to lose but our own lives. And we don't fear death! Not with everything we've been through. Laugh at them, think "_Fools. What fools these undead are!" _As I said before, we don't battle to win over them. Not now, we don't. We battle for the sun."

Jon ducked his head, "Thank you."

They hooted and hollered as they rummaged for their weapons, singing songs about sunlight and royalty, understanding of what they were about to do. Jon joined as he unsheathed Longclaw, letting out a hearty laugh.

"Onwards!" he called out, "To the battle site!"

They clustered together, weapons raised in the air, shouting savage cries of war. As they turned the corner, they stopped, barely refraining from tumbling down the hill. and stared ahead for a pregnant moment, holding their breaths. The Night King and his army of undead stared back. Jon turns his head to the left, then to the right. He looks at the Night King once more.

He barely had time to think _fool!_ before everyone around him was running at The Night King and his army of thousands, every step of theirs like thunder against the frozen ground. They screamed and pounded their chests, joyously laughing with the wind. And Jon felt _alive_. With death imminent, he felt he felt more alive than he had in months. His hair fanned out behind him and his mouth opened wide in a battle cry. Even as Longclaw clashed into a sword of a wightwalker, he felt invigorated, rejuvenated.

Jon felt the wolfsblood pumping through his veins, ancient and prideful. He felt the dragonsblood rushing from his heart, determined and certain. He felt his ancestors in his mind, Stark and Targaryen, humming in his ear. He was old, he was new. He was ice, he was fire.

Jon succumbed to his primal instincts. his mind falling blank as his well-trained muscles took over. He fought like a demon, slashing and jabbing everywhere, not even cautious that he might hit a comrade. They were so outnumbered that the odds were too unlikely that someone would get that close to him.

Longclaw clashed and clanged, and even as the exuberant screams of his army turned pain-filled and grief-stricken, Jon fought on. His vision was red, blood and sweat rested upon his brow. He spun in a dance unknown to all but him, he listened to music no other could hear. And then, his hard eyes found a blue scalp from above the masses. The Night King.

Jon slashed his way toward the towering beast. _You!_ he wanted to scream, _You've caused me so much pain and suffering! You've caused my _family _so much pain and suffering!_ He doubts anyone will spare a second thought if he actually did voice those words, but he keeps them in his head anyway, allowing them to harden. He stops his movement for as long as he dares, to look up at the Night King's glowing blue eyes.

_This was a suicide mission anyway_, Jon resolves, and he quickly sends out a short prayer that Bran will finish the spell soon, before he raises Longclaw above his head and charges.

He is a wolf. He is a dragon. He is Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell. He is Jaehaerys Targaryen III, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne. He is all this, but above all, he is _angry._ Jon barely takes notice of his surroundings when he attacks the Night King, just going at it with all he was worth. And just when he registers a sharp pain in his gut of a spearhead, light overcomes his vision.

_Bran_, is his only desperate thought as his eyes close into darkness.


	2. Jon II

**Jon II**

Even before Jon opened his eyes he knew the plan had worked. Not only did he feel a soft featherbed beneath his back, and his torso felt no pain, but his face was warm and golden light seeped through his shut eyelids. _The sun._

Jon's eyes joyously sprang open as he swung his legs over the bed and stumbled towards the window. He stuck his head out into the day basking in the sun. A southern would call it chilly, but to Jon, it was warm. It was so, so warm.

The sky was painted a beautiful gradient of tangerine orange to coral pink and the sun was a beacon from above the horizon. It shone bright, and it's warm rays washed over Winterfell like a wave.

Jon turned around to look at his room. It was smaller than his siblings' but Jon preferred it that way, considering he didn't own many chattels to fill the space. An old oak desk sat strong and true to the left of him, and a slightly worn fur rug was beneath his feet, shielding them from the cool stone. A small bookshelf was planted near Jon's bed, holding battered tales of the knights of old. His closet was near the corner of his room, holding his linens. It felt weird to look into his closet and see only that. No armor, no furs. He supposes he had no real need of them before he trekked to the wall with his Uncle Benjen.

_Uncle Benjen!_ _He was still alive! _Jon could barely hold in his excitement. His entire family! They were alive again!

Quickly grabbing a tunic, trousers, and his favorite pair of leather boots, he gets dressed in haste. While lacing his boots, he spares a thought to how he was going to stop everything. The first thing that came to mind was to somehow thwart Jon Arryn's death, but he could hardly do that as a boy in Winterfell. At first, on all accounts his father cannot accept Robert Baratheon's offer and Hand. Just by doing that he could save his father's, Robb's, and Lady Catelyn's lives (although he does guiltily admit he shed no tears over the latter). Step two, would be to gain an alliance with the free folk and to start to prevent the Night King's rise to power.

Jon sighed as he finished with his boots. _Easier said than done._ How was he, a teenaged bastard of the North's liege lord, going to accomplish all that all by himself? He quickly sucked in a breath as a realization came to mind. He didn't need to do it all by himself.

Oddly enough, Jon had never even considered telling his Lord Father of his peculiar situation. His father could do a lot more than Jon could, after all. But the real problem was whether or not he'd believe him. The Night King, time travel? If you had talked of that to the young Jon he would scoff maybe call Maester Luwin. But he had evidence.

No one in the world besides Jon's father was supposed to know of his true parentage. Restating these facts could be his proof. Jon also knew that despite intervention, Bran would become crippled anyway, something about losing his legs in order to fly. Telling his father before hand, and having him witness the crippling himself, would be sure proof of his predicament, if not prophetic dreams.

Standing up from his bed, he confidently strolled out into the hallway. His family would probably be heading down to break their fast in the dining hall around now. Afterward, he'd try to steal some time away and meet with his father in his solar. Maybe even the rest of his family too. He mulled over that thought. Lady Catelyn certainly deserved to know of Jon's true parentage considering she had falsely thought her husband had cheated on her until she died. His siblings were a different matter, though. Arya and Sansa were still young, he had to remember. Arya was not let a Faceless Man, dangerous, sadistic, and cold, but a young girl, who just wanted to spar with her brothers. Sansa, perhaps, was the most different. Unforgiving circumstances in which had been forced onto her had made his little sister far from the naive and proper girl she was now. He guessed he'd have to leave them out of the equation, as well as Bran and Rickon, because of their age.

Robb, on the other hand, deserved to know in Jon's opinion. He was old enough in the present, and was pretty consistent in his responses. And gods forbid something happens to their father, Robb will have to know and aid Jon. He had missed Robb's companionship, as well, and remembered the deep bond they shared before he went to the wall. If Robb found out of Jon's predicament from anyone but himself, their relationship might be ruined.

_Yes,_ he decided, _I'll tell Father and Robb, and maybe Lady Catelyn depending on her willingness to listen._

As he walked the halls of Winterfell he is confronted with ghosts. Even the maids and servants passing by in their morning chores seemed surreal. Almost everyone he passed had died. Him, with his throat slit, her with her head bashed. He stared at his own feet as he walked because he couldn't help the illusions of his morbid mind. The royal part of him screamed at him to keep his head held high, to confront his demons and keep his dignity. That part of his was losing the battle.

He soon found his way to the door of the dining hall, and without his permission, his feet stopped before the threshold. He brought his head up slowly, readying himself for the sight he would soon see. Even still, he had to brace a shaky arm upon the doorframe to steady himself as he gazed upon the smiling faces of his kin.

Arya was playing with her oats, trying to fling them onto Sansa using only her spoon. Lady Catelyn had a look on her face directed at Arya which Jon himself knew all too well. She knew better than to attempt to stop Arya, though, they both knew who had stronger will. Sansa looked like she had swallowed a lemon, her face pinched up in a scowl and her brows furrowed. Despite Arya's antics, she still kept her poise, one Jon knew would only solidify her as more of a leader in the future. Bran talked animatedly to her father, most likely about knightship and heroes. His father, in return, from the looks of it, was trying and subsequently failing at getting Bran to eat his food. Rickon, in regards to food, was smearing it upon the table cloth, enjoying the focus of his parents being elsewhere. And Robb was looking straight at Jon, hands beckoning him towards the table.

Jon smiled, and as he moved to the table he felt as if his soul had detached from his body and he was observing his life from an outsider's point of view. He hardly felt like this was real, and that he was actually walking towards his family, all alive and well.

"Jon, you good?" Robb asked, concerned.

"Yes," Jon replied, still in a slight haze from seeing his dead family once more, "Just didn't sleep too well last night, dreams kept me up."

Robb made a noise of understanding, "Maester Luwin has sleeping drought that works like a charm if you ever need it. Want to spar with Theon and I after we're done eating?"

At first, it took all of Jon's willpower to not accept the offer just for the opportunity to pummel Theon with his newfound sword skills. Then, he realized he had to decline.

"Actually, Robb, I need to speak to father. And you for that matter." Jon's gaze drifted across the table where his father sat.. Robb stared at him with his Tully blue eyes, confused.

"What?"

"Just trust me, brother."

Jon then turns his grey eyes to the table, and almost balks at the surplus of food. He hasn't had fresh food in such a long time. Bread, fruit, cheese, eggs, bacon, oats, stew. He piled his plate with a famished look, savoring the delectable taste of the food of Winterfell.

Jon then forced himself to pause his gluttony, and rose from his chair to make his way towards his father. Ned Stark seemed to have resigned himself to Rickon's food ignoration, and just tuned out the toddler's ramblings with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Father?" Jon said, getting the Lord's attention along with the Lady's glare, "There is something important I must discuss with Robb, your Lady Wife, and you in private after we are done eating. Is that okay?"

Although Jon keeps his voice level, his father must have sensed his urgency, or perhaps knew that it must be urgent because Jon directly asks for attention. Ned Stark nodded, and Jon was suddenly grateful for his father keeping this on the down-low. No one at the table besides Robb and Lady Catelyn seemed to take notice of their discussion, which worked out splendidly in regards to his plan.

"Yes, Jon. We will all meet in my solar after this. May I ask what we need to discuss so crucially?"

"Something that sounds mad, but is in fact life and death. I swear I am not jesting."

Jon solemnly nodded and walked back to his chair to resume his binging, trying to ignore his father's eyes on his back. Once he sat down and ate some more, he felt the eyes scan elsewhere.

"Gods, Jon, it's like you haven't eaten in days!" Robb remarked from beside him.

Jon let out a chuckle, turning to look Robb in the eyes, "You don't even know."

Robb puzzledly stares at him while Jon unabashedly guzzles down some oats, "You aren't acting like yourself. Does it have to do with what we're going to talk about in father's solar?

"Uhh, yes," Jon mumbles, "Wonderful observation skills, Robb" He leaves the conversation at that, and ducks his head to shovel more food into his mouth. He pretends not to notice the hurt look in Robb's eyes.

Jon knew he was being cross and crabby, but once they knew what he'd been through they'd be sure to understand. Still, Jon out improving both his behavior and attitude into the back of his mind to work on once things were settled.

After Jon had eaten so much food in such little time that he felt like his stomach might explode, he forced himself out of his chair. Somehow, despite his excessive consumption, he finished first, probably because of the ungodly speed he ate at. He asked to be excused, and his father granted his permission. Jon wiped crumbs from his tunic, and briskly started to walk to his father's solar, his strides steady despite his inner distress.

He was truly a man changed. A man didn't fight in several wars and lose all of his friends and family and come back unscathed, both physically and mentally. It pains him, partly, to know that his family knew one Jon yesterday and woke up this morning to see a completely new one. It's something they'd have to deal with, though. He is no longer a pubescent bastard but a fully-grown leader. He can't go back to who he was all those years ago.

Is he now to serious and old-souled to play and joke with Arya? Will Robb still see him as a friend, a brother, rather than a hardened cousin. Will Sansa keep her nose in the air and shun him further? His father will surely pity him now, and pity is most certainly not what Jon wants. Will Lady Catelyn apologize for her actions when the truth of his parentage comes out? Or maybe she'd see him as even more of a stain, considering he wasn't able to fully stand for the Starks nor the Targaryens. Will little Bran and Rickon sense the change in him, and will they grow further apart because of it? This decision of his could very well be a familial disaster.

_But all that matters is keeping them alive_, Jon reassured himself, _even if they now hate you, at least they're not mere ashes lost in the snow. _Jon isn't reassured, though. Is he selfish, to want to salvage and form relationships with his family when he should be plain grateful for having them back? Perhaps.

Jon's nervousness must've lead to a quickened walking pace, because he found himself at the door of his father's solar before he expected himself too. Stepping forward, Jon opens the heavy wooden door, hearing it creak slightly.

He takes a seat in a chair across from his father's massive pine desk, and bounces his leg, anxiously awaiting his family.

_Where does he even start? _The story is incredibly long, and the first half he only knows from the anecdotes of others. The first half, unfortunately, is also the most immediate and pressing. Does he get into the details of Sansa's captivity, the mutiny at Castle Black, and the Red Wedding? Or does he spare them the fate of knowing?

The second half, on the other hand, Jon could talk about for days. Daenerys's ill-fated reign upon the iron throne and her death by his hands he will only talk about for a few minutes but preparations needed for the Long Night, the Night's Watch, the Free Folk, the Three Eyed Raven, and the Wights will take up most of his tale, he supposed. But how was he to get everyone to believe in them when they view what haunts him as a children's story, a fairytale?

Before his concerns got the best of his fragile mind, the door opened once more and the group he selected strolled in. Seeing them alive calmed some of his nerves, despite them being the objects of some of his worries. Jon took a deep breath, lightly closing his eyes as they all settled in around him.

He kept his eyes shut despite feeling the heavy weight of everyone's piercing gaze upon him. Jon sighs again, unable to stop the shakiness of his breath.

"What I am about to say sounds completely mad, I must admit, but I swear upon the gods old and new that everything I am about to say is the complete and utter truth."

Jon scanned the room, taking note of the trio's faces. Almost all wore an identical look of concern and disbelief. It was times like these were Jon felt more like a black sheep and was reminded that he, in fact, was not the biological brother and son to these people. Although some of his siblings looked more Stark, and some resembled stronger to their Tully side, they wore the same countenances at times. Jon's demeanor, or so he was told, was his Rhaegar's through and through. John cleared his throat, getting back to the topic at hand.

"This is my second chance at life," he started, choosing to omit his death and resurrection at Melisandre's hands. "I woke up today, as a boy of ten and three, when just yesterday my soul was in my body of twenty and eight." He quickly continued to talk, trying to foil the beginnings of scoffs and outcries around the room.

"In the future, there are no Starks alive besides Bran. They all die preventable deaths. I, by the fate of the gods, perhaps, survived long enough for Bran to send my back in time, before everything went to shit. I am here to help save your lives and countless others. I am here to prevent wars. Believe me or don't, but I will not allow tragedy to befall this nation once more. Not on my watch." They seem shocked at the seriosity Jon had while speaking those absurd words.

"Jon, my son," his father started, overlooking Lady Catelyn's glare at the way he addressed him, "I trust you, but this sounds… this sounds absolutely mad! How can you expect us to believe this?" Sounds and movements of agreement permeated throughout the room.

"I know who my mother is," Jon blurted out confidently.

His father's face went a sickly shade of pale as the room burst into a flurry of noise and motion.

"You do? Who?" asked Robb skeptically.

"Who is she?" he heard Lady Stark say sharply, "Who is your mother? Ned? How did the bastard find out? Talk to me, please!"

"And on the topic," Jon projected above the racket, turning to look directly into his father's eyes steely eyes, "I also know who my father is."

The solar erupted into an incredulous uproar, but his father, with a few stern words, hushed his wife and heir.

"How?"

His father's voice sounds shakier than Jon's ever heard it before, and Jon is shocked to see small tears rolling down his father's face.

"Who told you? How'd you find out?"

The Starks jaws were hanging down to the floor at the realization that Eddard Stark was not, indeed, Jon Snow's father. Lady Stark seemed as if she was about to collapse in on herself.

"There were records in the citadel. And a greenseer told me." Jon resolved not to mention the Three Eyed Raven version of Bran until the story he undoubtedly would be telling came to it.

"I understand why you kept it a secret," Jon began, a little startled at the small wobble in his words, "I don't resent you for it. But you might want to tell everyone, father, to lift the weight off your shoulders. Then, I can tell you about the series of events which happened in my timeline and how we can start to prevent it."

Jon's father breathed deeply, "For Jon's young life, and for the love of my family, I kept his parentage a secret, you must understand, but.." he sighed, "I do suppose it is time to come clean. Whatever I am about to say, though, is to never be repeated. You hear me?

"I swear it upon the gods old and new," Robb said excitedly, but now slightly solemn. Lady Catelyn reluctantly echoed her son's statement. She was on the verge of tears. Despite the trouble she put him through in his childhood, Jon has had over a decade to absolve the Lady of Winterfell for her actions. A part of him even feels pity for her right now, having her world tipped upside down and all.

"Jon is not my bastard," his father starts, "In fact, Jon is not anybody's bastard. He is, in truth, the trueborn son to my dear sister Lyanna Stark, and Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna went with Rhaegar willingly, why she never told anyone I'll never know. They married in a secret ceremony in Dorne." The Lord of WInterfell, usually so strong and stoic, now had tears pouring down his face, "_Promise me, Ned,_ that's what she said. She made me promise to protect Jon. And I- I couldn't very well say he was the last of the dragons and heir to the Iron Throne in front of Robert, now could I? He would've murdered you him without question, even as a babe. You all know what happened to Elia Martell and her children. What Robert did to them." He let out a heart-wrenching sob, "I should've told you, Catelyn, I know I should've, but we were so young then, and we barely knew each other. I felt as if I was the only person I could trust in this world. I'm sorry Catelyn, I really am."

A pregnant pause filled to solar as everyone digested to shocking information.

"Well, Jon," Robb starts, "I suppose you can start your story of the future. Seems like your proof was more than enough."


	3. Robb I

His mind was reeling. Jon was actually his trueborn cousin rather than his bastard brother. And he had traveled back in time! It seemed as if it came from a song: A secret time-traveling king raised as a bastard. A king! Jon was a rightful king! Jon would be a good King, he supposed. Fair, humble, observant and kind, but stern and serious all the same.

And the time travel thing! Robb, being a descendant of the First Men, had some knowledge of magic himself, but was taught that it died out long ago. The thought of magic bringing Jon back to life seemed almost absurd! And Bran doing it! It was proof that the Old Gods were more than just myth, despite what his mother always believed.

He turned his gaze to the woman in question. His mother was aghast, wet tears rolling down her ashen face. Was she shocked? Angry? Sad? He tried to figure out what she was feeling, but couldn't. If he was her, he would be feeling everything at once. Finding out that your husband's bastard, whom you treated with disdain, was time traveling royalty would sure do that to a person.

He faintly heard his brother (cousin?) clearing his throat.

"We don't have to do this right now if you want. I mean, if you all need time to mull things over… The information I need to tell you needs to be, well, told, but we have years to implement action. We can wait a day. I understand that it's a lot."

"To say the least," Robb added with the smallest hint of humor.

"Yes we would like some time, Jon. Thank you for informing us of this," his father paused to formulate his thoughts, "You may be much older in mind, Jon, but in body you are still young. The Jon Snow today has to align with the Jon Snow of yesterday, no matter how many years between the two."

Jon nodded, aware, but Robb understood that anyone who truly knew Jon would notice the differences right away. This new, older Jon was blunt and battle-hardened, as well as being even more stoic and serious than normal, which was quite a feat. He was no green boy anymore, that was for sure. He was a man, a leader, the heir to the Iron Throne.

The solar was blanketed by stagnant silence, everyone adjusting their minds to the changes in their lives. His father finally spoke.

"You and Robb have lessons with Ser Rodrik right around now. You may have been an accomplished sword fighter in your time, Jon, but now you are no better than Theon or Robb. Your only advantage would be your knowledge, which does very little in actions. Practice wisely."

With those words, Robb's father stood up and walked out of the room, brisk, with his mother following behind as if pulled by an invisible string.

Logically, Robb knew that he wasn't alone in the solar. His brother (he decided that despite Jon being his cousin, he was still his brother in everything but blood) sat beside him, charcoal eyes tracking the sporadic movements of the fire.

But oddly enough, even in Jon's company, a sense of loneliness settled upon Robb like a dark storm cloud. Did he even know his brother anymore?

And what about Jon's feelings about him? Jon hasn't seen Robb in what- ten years? (Even if Robb had seen him yesterday). If Robb hadn't seen anyone in ten years he was sure that their relationship would change.

Robb eyed Jon's solemn face and dark eyes. The way Jon sat was different. He sat straighter, but at the same time he was hunched. Proud but exhausted, Robb determined, that's why he sat the way he did. Robb finally cleared his throat.

"Lessons, then?"

Jon looked up, meeting Robb's eyes, and he was shocked to see a small flicker of excitement in them, "Yes, lessons. Hopefully my skills will progress quickly so I can knock you to the dirt every time."

Robb gaped, "Well let's see, dear brother, who will be knocking the other into the dirt."

The fact that Jon's mouth loosened slightly when Robb called him 'brother' was not lost to the redhead. The spell of stillness then shattered as they both pushed out their chairs and made their way to the door.

"I have to say that I'm quite surprised, Snow. I don't remember you being this confident yesterday."

"Just over a decade of fighting will do that to a man, Stark. Plus, as you may recall," his voice dropped to a whisper, "I do have royal blood."

Even though Jon chuckled, Robb stayed silent, still slightly uncomfortable with the new information.

Jon eyed him, "To be honest with you, Robb, I'm not sure how I feel about that. Even though there's no speculation left about my parentage, I still feel unsure, I suppose. My father was a prince," his voice was heavy with disbelief, "my grandparents were king and queen."

He looked toward Robb, "See? Doesn't that sound like a lie?"

It did, it really did. The words sounded cursed, forbidden, blasphemous, almost. _In another life,_ Robb realized,_ Jon would've ruled the Iron Kingdoms_. And with another fleeting thought, _that could happen in this life, if the gods will it._ The realization shook him, but he just nodded in response.

"I reckon I have more wolf blood than dragon blood," Jon continued, "I'm strong in the magic of the First Men, and much weaker in that of Valyria, as well."

Robb raised his eyebrows, "Magic?"

"Yes, Magic. You have a little as well, I think. Warging."

Robb couldn't help but guffaw, "Warging?"

"Yes, with your direwolf, Grey Wind," the amusement was clear in Jon's voice, but Robb was anything but amused.

"My _direwolf?_ You can't be serious!"

"Really, Robb?" They stopped at the training yard to finish their conversation, and Jon tilted his head back, soaking in the warm rays of the sun like a man who had never known summer, "When am I known to jest?"

_But I don't know you anymore,_ he wanted to say, _how am I supposed to know?_ Even with these thoughts, Robb spared a second to envision Jon as a court jester and nearly burst out laughing. _I guess somethings don't change about a person_, he thought. Jon was just as solemn as always.

"Boys!" Ser Rodrik called out, "There you are! Have any idea where Theon is?

"Probably down in Wintertown, still" Robb replied, "He got shitfaced drunk last night."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jon wincing at the Ironborn's name. He'll have to ask him about what happened with Theon later. Or wait to hear it in his tale.

The northern knight sighed disappointedly, "Well then I suppose we could start without him," and then more quietly, barely above a whisper. "It's his fault he would rather disgrace himself than learn how to defend himself."

Jon and Robb looked at each other, small smiled etched upon their faces. Theon will be Theon and Ser Rodrik will be Ser Rodrik.

"Anyway, grab those blunted tourney swords. You'll be sparing while I take notes on your technique and faults."

"Theon's not here, Stark, so I guess I have to take my anger out on you. Ready to eat dirt?"

Yes, he would have to ask Jon about Theon.

"You wish, Snow," he answered.

Ser Rodrik looked on amusedly, no doubt being reminded of his youth, "Go on, pick out your sword of choice."

Robb immediately dove for the shiniest, with the premise that it was the newest. And while testing out in his hand, he decided that it, in fact, wasn't a bad pick after all. It felt balanced and natural.

Jon, on the other hand, took his sweet old time picking out his sword. He must've tried ten, picking each up, feeling the weight of it in his hands, and putting it away, dissatisfied. Finally, he begrudgingly picked up an older looking one.

Jon muttered something under his breath about it not being something called Longclaw, but that it was good enough. Robb wondered absentmindedly if this Longclaw was Jon's tried-and-true sword in the future, that no blunted tourney sword here could compete with. It probably was.

"Ready Boys?" Ser Rodrik questioned, "Three, two, one, begin!"

Robb and Jon observed each other for a few moments, circling around. Jon look was predatory and wolfish, he noticed. Primal. His eyes seemed to scan Robb's stance, and Robb barely had a chance to think that Jon had the strategic advantage in this battle before his brother attacked, swinging his right hand wide and above his head. Robb hastily put his sword up to block the blow, surprised at both Jon's confidence in the offensive, as well as his strength.

Robb lunged, swinging his sword at a head angle to Jon's gut, be he swiftly sidestepped and continued his observant gaze. Then Jon thrusted forward landing blow after blow upon Robb's sword. He was quick and sharp, and Robb was barely able to parry them all.

Jon's style was most definitely not what Ser Rodrik taught them as children. It was more fluid, but also more sharp. More unorthodox, more primitive. He tried to spare a thought to about where Jon had learned this, but he had no time, too preoccupied with the deluge of attacks he was fending off.

Jon's style was better suited to kill, Robb realized with a start. He wasn't used to fighting with the intent to disarm, but rather to fatally wound. This admittingly shook him, and the heir found his arms moving slower, with less vigor. The fact that his brother had to fight in order to survive made these run of the mill blunted-sword practices seem a lot less fun.

Jon must've noticed his distraction, dodging to the right, and arching long at Robb's sword. He was barely able to fend him off. Jon stepped back to take a few breaths, which was a more than welcome break for Robb.

Sweat dampened his hair and dripped down the back of his neck. His breaths were quick and heavy. He forced his eyes to study Jon. There was a hint of frustration in his face, Robb noticed. He remembered what his father said to Jon before he left:

_"Your only advantage would be your knowledge, which does very little in actions."_

Jon couldn't even rely on muscle memory, because his muscles have no yet memorized these actions. And the memory of muscle memory probably didn't do much for his performance, after all.

Robb went in for a blow but was weakly parried by Jon. He went in for another blow.

_If I could just tire him enough…_

Jon did some complicated twisting gesture with his sword, and Robb's sword clattered to the dirt. Robb looked up in astonishment. _What was that?_

The two opponents looked at each other for a few moments. Jon winked as if to say, _I was just toying with you all along,_ but in fact Robb knew the wink should be interpreted more along the lines of, _I only learned how to do that in the future. I'll teach you if you'd like?_

Robb winked back.

"Jon, lad!" Ser Rodrik called out, "I never taught you that! Have you been practicing, or has this just happened overnight?"

_Overnight,_ Robb answered in his head, _but also over the span of fifteen years._

"Uh, yes Ser," Jon replied, "I've been practicing."

"Ah, well Robb, looks like you're going to have to admit defeat," said the knight.

Robb let out an incredulous chuckle, "I admit defeat, Ser."

A small voice snapped them out of their conversation.

"Wow, Jon! You have to teach me!"

Little Arya came racing into the yard, her dress dragging in the mud.

Jon smiled, "Maybe one day, when you could pick up a sword without toppling over."

"I can do that now!" she answered, a little offended by the looks of it.

"Perhaps," Robb joined in, "but are you sure you have enough strength in those arms to swing it?" He nearly burst out laughing at Arya's responding pout.

"I'll be a great swordswoman one day! I'll be able to beat _all_ my brothers. Like Aunt Lyanna!"

Robb searched Jon's face for sadness at the mention of his secret mother, but none appeared.

"You will be a great swordswoman, someday," Jon said with certainty, "but now you have to learn how to be a great sewer. I think you're ditching your lessons."

"Yes, little one," said Ser Rodrik authoritatively. "Go to your lessons."

Arya pouted and ran away mumbling about Sansa and Jeyne Poole and embroidery. Robb wondered what that was about.

"Arya!" Jon called out to her retreating figure, "Needles are really just miniature swords, aren't they?"

Arya looked back and laughed.


	4. Catelyn I

**Catelyn I**

She twisted the fabric of her dress nervously, her head ducked low so her face would be concealed by a curtain of auburn hair. The tension and worry which thickened the air of her husband's solar was palpable. They were going to hear Jon Snow's story today.

_Jon Snow, s_he thought with a grimace. He couldn't really be considered a Snow now, though, could he? _Jon Targaryen_, she thought instead, and she could almost taste the words in her head. _Bitter, raw, spicy,_ they were, and above all: _wrong._ Her husband's bastard was royalty. She treated a prince (or was he a king?) no better than the filth beneath her shoe. Jon was older now, more mature, even if not in body. Maybe he would decide to take revenge. Throw her in a cell, starve her and beat her. Or even behead her, burn her. Catelyn could almost feel the phantom flames licking her body and charring her flesh black. She shuddered.

Mad King Aerys was supposedly obsessed with fire. He was said to burn people alive for entertainment. There were also whispers about Queen Rhaella- about the revolting puckered scars of melted skin littering her body. Although logically she knew Jon Snow (_Stark? Targaryen?) _would not go so far to murder her, even if spurred by vengeance, his family held a terrible history of insanity. What if, in the future, he turned dark and rageful? What if his dragon blood was inescapable, even if half-wolf? She couldn't bear to think of it.

And this story, about the future he lived through- would it be reliable? Would the boy disclude things that put him in a negative light? And what about her children, her babies? Did Jon know what happened to Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon? Did he know what they went through? Could he be trusted enough to tell what they went through?

Although Catelyn still had feelings of distrust towards the boy, her instincts screamed, "_Yes! You can trust him with this!" _The boy had seemed so grievous, so urgent the day before in this very solar. _Whatever's coming is going to impact every single one of us_, she realized. Oh, what did her children go through!

Jon and Robb stepped into the solar, closing the door firmly behind them. Robb pulled out a chair and sat, but Jon stood at the doorway fiddling with the hem of his shirt. The boy's usually melancholy features were drawn with anxiety.

"Sit down, Jon," Ned instructed, "I think we'll be here for a while."

Although her husband didn't show it, Catelyn knew he was just as worried as she was about what Jon was going to tell them. He tossed and turned the entirety of the night before, haunted by demons yet to drag themselves out from beneath the bed.

Jon sat down. Jon sat down and he told them _everything._ He told them about the death of Jon Arryn, about Cersei and Jaime Lannister's incestuous affair. He told them about Ned's execution (Oh gods!) and the War of the Five Kings. He spoke of Sansa's imprisonment in the lion's den, and Arya's trek across the continent. He spoke of Ramsay Bolton, and Theon's betrayal. He talked of Bran and Rickon and the greenseer, The Three Eyed Raven. He told of what was dubbed the Red Wedding, and Catelyn wanted to be sick.

And then he talked of what was happening on and beyond the wall- The Others, wildlings (or free folk, as she learned they preferred to be called), and Mance Ryder. The Mutiny at Castle Black, The Night King, and the Battle of the Bastards. The retaking of Winterfell and the King in the North.

Then he spoke of the Mad King's daughter, Daenerys Targaryen, and her dragons. He spoke of how the dragons were crucial in the battle for the dawn- well, until they were turned themselves.

His tale got darker, more chilling. He talked of mass slaughter, of electric blue eyes. Of the Night King's Army numbering in the hundreds of thousands. He talked of famine and hypothermia, sickness and death! So much death!

And then he got to the end- the magic, the rituals, the fruitless battle. And all Catelyn could think was How? How could her babies go through that? How could the Others, White Walkers, Night King, Children of the Forest, Greenseers, and Wargs be real? How could dragons be real, for that matter? And what was the nonsense about the savage sun god R'hllor, and his followers Thoros of Myr and Melisandre? Azor Ahai and Beric Dondarion? How did the bastard Jon outlive all of her children besides Bran? And by the way Jon made it sound, Bran wasn't exactly her baby boy by the time he traveled back, but more of an imposter wearing his face like a sick sort of mask. Jon also shared his suspicions about the greenseer. Either indifferent, he said, or evil.

The Raven could've been using Bran's empty body as a meatsuit, her actual child either dead or trapped inside his mind. The Raven was power hungry, supposedly, and only worked for his own benefit.

"Bran was far from the boy who climbed the towers and dreamed of knighthood," Jon had said, "He was blank, emotionless. Not even a man, really. All he seemed to care for was killing the Night King. Funny, really, because the Night King seemed to want to kill him too. Self-Interest, I tell you. All he had on his mind was his survival and his alone."

_No, not funny,_ Catelyn had thought despite knowing that Jon meant it in a more ironic fashion. _Not funny at all._

She spared a glance around the solar and almost immediately regretted it. Robb sat staring at his hands in a haze. A singular tear rolled almost lazily down his cheek and his foot tapped anxiously against the stone floor.

_Tap tap tap tap._

And Ned, oh her Ned! He seemed vacant, his body trembling like a flame when attacked by wind. His head was lowered into his hands and his body wracked with great shuddering sobs. Soon enough her vision started to blur and a loud embarrassing hiccup forced its way up from her diaphragm. The tears started as Jon Snow looked on.

He looked uncomfortable, surrounded by his weeping family _(and yes, they were family, he was rightfully her nephew after all. Family, Duty, Honor)_. How trivial this must seem to him? How pathetic, how weak? He had to live through, no _survive_ this, and they were just hearing an account of it. An account of something that technically never happened, never in this universe at least. Catelyn forced herself to stop thinking about it and to just focus on getting her act together. She was confusing herself. Then Jon Snow started to speak. It was dark, and gravelly, and mature, and sounded way too old and weary to be coming out of a boy of ten and three's mouth.

"After we get the mess sorted out with the Arryns, Baratheons, and Lannisters, I suppose I'd head north immediately. The wall is seriously outmanned and ill supplied, as you've heard. I'll want to get the brothers prepared there, then head even further north to help the free folk. Or do whatever they'd let me, for that matter, I'm still a pathetic southern kneeler in their eyes."

"Southern?" Ned said brokenly, his voice cracking. Poor man, that was probably the last straw.

He resigned to it when Jon just looked at him and continued, sounding way too tired for nine in the morning, "Jon, I don't- I won't-" he sighed and shook his head, "I'm not going to fight you on this now considering its years in the future, but… but I really hope you decide to stay in Winterfell."

She turned her gaze to Jon, who wore a hard look on his face. Understandable, for he was just Bastard of Winterfell, the black sheep of the Stark family until Ned died in his previous timeline. Ned was probably relieved in the other universe, even a little, to see him take the black, swear celibacy, and to waste away in the frigid tundra. Less chance of being found out as the secret King, she supposed.

And she was probably part of that decision, too. That Jon Snow went to the wall because that was the only place he felt like his status wouldn't hold him back. It didn't, at least not too much- he was Lord Commander, after all. At Winterfell, though, how disdainful was she to him? How neglectful was she, even just a few days ago? Part of his decision to leave was probably to get away from her. (Family, Duty, Honor). And Ned probably let him go so easily because he knew how she had always held so much _hate_ for the motherless child. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Can't we just isolate ourselves? Segregate the north from the rest of Westeros and leave Iron Throne, and other southern conflicts for that matter, to the south? It would be a little tough come winter, but I've heard of foreign crops, ones that could be grown in cold weather: barely, rye, turnip, and sugar beet to name a few. All we have to worry about is the Long Night, then. And we could go north together."

Catelyn had almost forgotten that her eldest son was in the room. And she did have to admit- he made a compelling point. A part of her heart longed for Riverrun, though, for Lysa and Edmure. She also wanted to feel warm, maybe even uncomfortably so, before darkness and chill descended upon them all.

Granted, she had acclimated to the North shockingly well- Winterfell was just as much her home as Riverrun. When she had first met Eddard "Call me Ned" Stark, he was straight off a battlefield, standing loyally by the behemoth usurper Robert Baratheon. He was caked in dirt and mud and blood, and his hair was tangled and matted. And when she spoke to him she was in disbelief. _This couldn't have been her betrothed!_ He was grim, and spoke very few words. He was quiet, and broody, and overall not the man she had dreamed of as a wee girl. _He ended up surpassing all of it._

She guessed she didn't realize, as a girl playing pretend, that big, heroic, brawny, braggart types made good fantasies, but not so good husbands. They were too loud, too competitive, too narcissistic. Her Ned, though, he was _kind_. He was a good and caring husband _and_ father, which was more than she could've ever gotten with a man like Robert Baratheon. She supposed that his gentleness, hospitality, and respect helped her settle better in the North. Plus her children were half northern, half wolfish. Even though they were all born in the summer, they had never known anything but the North. They would do perfectly fine without the rest of Westeros holding them back.

She snapped out of her reverie when Jon began to speak, "That...that could work," he seemed to be considering the idea, which had evidently not crossed his mind before, "We could get the dragonglass from Skagos instead of Dragonstone. And once the South figures out their problems, we could recruit them for help in the Long Night. We're going to need Daenerys and her dragons eventually, after all." As he spoke, he gained confidence in the idea, his voice turning louder with each word, "Robb, you're brilliant!"

There were flaws, Catelyn thought, many flaws. But those could be worked out with time. And they had time, they had years. Ned voiced her thoughts, but admittingly focused a lot more on the flaws.

"Cutting ourselves off from the King- Robb, it'll take more than just a declaration! Robert would never just _let_ me go like that."

"Robert doesn't need to _let_ you," Jon's interjection was sharp, "Just do it. He's not your childhood playmate anymore, father. You can destroy a friendship that's already ripping at the seams, or make things exponentially harder for yourself. And he won't ask you to be Hand if this happens."

Ned's soldiers sagged, "But the alliances- Jon- they'd be ruined!"

"Not necessarily," Catelyn decided to add her two bits, "If they are truly loyal to you they'll continue an alliance even after the secession. The North and Dorne are practically independent, anyway. They might even side and trade with us."

She wanted to immediately bite her words when she remembered the fate of Elia Martell and her children, and how since the blame fell to Robert, it in turn also fell to Ned. Maybe after hearing the full story, though, they would change their minds

"And new trade deals!" As Robb spoke Catelyn realized with a bit of amusement that they were all teaming up against her husband, "Jon mentioned the wildlings, the Braavosi, the Dothraki. We could form alliances with them. We'd be even more powerful than Westeros!"

_But that wasn't the goal, now was it? _It seemed as if her son, after getting the image of him as King in the North in his head, had become a little over-zealous and ambitious in regards to power. He certainly won't end up as king anytime soon, for Ned was assuredly alive, well, and experienced, but just with the glimpse of the North as an independent nation had gotten him already aiming it to be an imperium. One look at Jon Snow's face told her that survival, and only that, was the ultimate goal for him. Survival of the human race, to be exact, even at the cost of his own life.

"Being more powerful that Westeros…" Jon started, "It could happen, actually, but it won't be what we're striving for. I will do anything, Robb. I will do _anything _to prevent the Long Night. The suffering...the cold...the famine...avoiding that is our number one priority."

It was as if the wind answered Jon's call. It burst through the window and pervaded frostiness throughout the room, chilling its occupants to the bones. It was an omen, a sign, a herald of the winter to come. Ned sighed.

"Starting tomorrow I'll start drafting letters to the rest of the Northern Lords and the Wall. If we're to do this we're going to need everyone backing us up."


	5. Eddard I

**Eddard I**

* * *

Lords Magnar, Stane, and Crowl, of the island of Skagos,

I, your Liege Lord Eddard Stark, son of Rickard Stark, hereby ask for your humble alliance in trade, and, if circumstances so call for it, in battle. My first inquiry is about the surplus of the unique black stone called dragonglass on your island. If my sources and predictions prove true, the entirety of the Northern Nation will need a supply of the rock. Being substantially further south than you, I'm sure we can offer a variety of supplies in return.

I know that in the past Skagos has been mostly independent from both the North and from the rest of Westeros, so I ask most pleadingly that you at least consider my offer. And, in terms of independence, I am toying with the idea of secession from Westeros, so we, as a nation, could embrace our own culture and religion without southern ideals holding us back. As of now, and for the foreseeable future, this will not come to fruition, but for preparation's sake, please express your inputs on the matter in the returning raven. There are an assortment of crops that can be grown this far north, and seeds will be supplied to us by the Braavosi, who grow them, so we will not lapse into famine. His grace Robert Baratheon, first of his name, is sure to be hesitant in such political maneuver, especially considering we were both fostered together in childhood. If the North does actually end up seceding, and if the secession leads to war, I ask of you an alliance.

My brother, Benjen Stark, is a ranger upon the Wall at Castle Black. We engage in correspondence, and in a recent letter he confessed some troubling news to me. I am aware of Skagos's geography, and how nearly half of the island lies beyond the Wall, parallel to Eastwatch-by-the-sea. Have you also heard the following rumors? He says that the Others are real, along with wights, The Night King, and the Children of the Forest. This connects back to my request of dragonglass, for my sources say that dragonglass can be used against these creatures. That and Valyrian Steel, which, as you well know, is in very short supply. My brother also says that wildling tribes, who have held animosity towards each other for generations, and banning together under the rule of the self-declared King beyond the wall, Mance Rayder. There is mass-movement of the peoples, and have been several sieges at the Wall as per his accounts. Now why would these wild and nomadic peoples try to break their way in to Westeros, a land in which they hold nothing but bitterness towards. Why else would they team together to do this unless there was a threat bigger than themselves?

Summer has been upon us for a blessedly long time, and it is only an omen for the harshness what may be upon us. My house words ring true, Winter is Coming, and I do hope that you assist in the efforts to tame it as much as possible. Consider my requests, Lords Magnar, Stane, and Crowl, and please reply in haste- preparations should start as soon as possible.

Cordially,

Your liege lord Eddard Stark, on behalf of Northern survival

* * *

Ned looked up from his desk, rubbing his tired eyes and shaking out his cramping fingers.

What time was it?

He had drafting letters nonstop since the meeting with Jon, Robb, and Catelyn had been adjourned. His hands were stained with dark smudges of ink and angry red calluses were beginning to form on his palm and fingers.

For now, he was focusing on drafting letters to all of the houses under his command, and by god, he never realized how many houses there actually were! Practically any family who owned land was considered a house, and the North was quite vast. He supposed that his older brother had to memorize all of them, once upon a time, under his father's watchful command. But he, as the second son, never received those sort of lessons. They would have been more than useful, both in his youth and in his present.

But after over a decade of being the Lord of Winterfell, Ned presumed that he hadn't done too bad. At least not yet, that is. He had always kept good relations with the more prominent houses, making sure to listen to their requests and needs, a fact that was sure to come in handy. Since he has always been reliable, he hoped the lords of the North would return the favor.

He grabbed another piece of parchment and looked at the list of houses he had left. Some houses he could combine into one letter, like the Skagosi Lords, but he still had dozens of letters yet to write, nonetheless.

Dear Lord Glenmore of Rillwater Crossing,

He started to write, sighing at the monotony. Maybe he should take a break- pray in the Godswood, maybe, or talk to his family. He didn't have the chance to mull this over, though, because the door of his solar abruptly opened.

"Catelyn," Ned addressed with a relieved sigh.

"Ned," his wife replied.

They just stood there for a moment, basking in each other's company. The past couple of days had been absurdly bizarre and it was nice to just stay with someone familiar, unchanging, and unrelenting in his life. He smiled softly.

"As much as I like your company, Ned, I did come for a reason," she said softly.

Ned nodded, placing his letter and ink aside, prompting her to continue.

"Jon wants everyone to meet in the council room. He says we need a detailed and thorough plan if we are actually to change to the future. And to secede, for that matter. This isn't something to fly into blind."

Ned agreed wholeheartedly. Just a few days ago, he had thought that no decision of his could possibly eclipse his choice to claim Jon as his bastard son after Lyanna's passing at the Tower of Joy, but it seemed like he had been wrong. These decisions he and his family were making were to affect the entirety of Westeros, and even the lands beyond it. These decisions could determine the ultimate prevalence of light over dark. Or, contrarily, the prevalence of dark over light. He shuddered at the thought.

"How are you?" he questioned, forcing his thoughts away from the weight resting on his shoulders. On everybody's shoulders.

"I'm...dealing," Catelyn said tentatively, "It's a lot to process."

Ned hummed in agreement. He had noticed that she had been calling Jon by his name now, rather than "the boy", "the bastard," or even "it." This was a welcome change.

"And...about Jon," he began, "I tried to do what was best, I swear. Many times I had debated telling you, but in the end your discontent with him sold the story, Cat. If you suddenly started treating him as a trueborn son, everyone would be suspicious. Cat… I hope you understand."

His wife sighed, pulled up a chair, and sat down. "I do understand, Ned, I understand but we could've figured something out. I just wish you just told me."

Ned exhaled, "I do too."

Catelyn leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there for a few moments, watching the flames of the fire dance in the wind, listening to the hiss crackle pop . It was nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Such a shame that those things could only be found in little treasure trove moments of serenity. Moments that were going to become increasingly more scarce as the moons changed.

"I suppose we should meet Jon now," Ned spoke quietly, "Shouldn't keep him waiting for long."

Catelyn hummed, "We should, shouldn't we?"

They didn't move for a minute yet, hypnotized by the warmth of the hearth.

* * *

"First order of action," Jon began, "is to strengthen our bonds with other Northern houses, and to create bonds, however fragile at first, with the free folk."

He turned his gaze at the occupants of the room, and while staring into those charcoal eyes, so similar to Lyanna's, to his own, he felt an inexplicable chill. Was it just him, or were those eyes deeper, darker, hardened?

"As the years progress, we, of course, need to start preventing the death of Jon Arryn, diminishing the Lannister's hold upon the bank and crown, and trying to prevent a five-way war. All that from the shadow-, we will hopefully be distanced if not independent by then. And from there hopefully Daenerys Targaryen will be making her way back to Westeros to claim the Iron Throne."

Everybody nodded in agreement. It made sense- not getting directly and officially involved in southern affairs, but waiting and covertly pulling strategic strings all while up north and far away from the drama. And to eventually separate from Westeros, the North would have to be a unified and strong force- the entirety of the North, including those beyond the Wall.

Ned's maternal grandmother had been a wildling; a Flint, to be exact. Although he had very few memories of the woman, he remembered her headstrongness, her great bellying laugh, and her gravelly voice she used (frail but loud) when she sternly reprimanded her husband, or even Ned's parents, despite them being grown and capable. He named Arya after her, and he supposed the wildling spirit of his grandmother lived on in the girl, all rowdy, and rough.

Bitterness and enmity had existed between those separated by the Wall for centuries. As his unpolished grandmother ran circles in his mind, he determined that, despite many differences, a common ground could always be found if one looked hard enough. Ned shivered as he envisioned the North, full in its icy indifference, together and standing strong against the South.

Just if my father had abandoned his southern ambitions and turned his thoughts to what really mattered..

Ned shook his head and turned his focus back to the meeting. It was no use dwelling on past hypotheticals.

"...I want to go beyond the Wall," Jon was saying, "Not only do I know their ideologies, languages, and geography, but I also want to find the raven, see if he knows the specifics of the spell that brought me back. For all I know there could be limits for how much we can change. And maybe threaten him while I'm at it. We don't want him ever getting south of the Wall."

"We can arrange that," Ned replied, "Your disappearance for a while will be easier to explain than the rest of ours. You can go with Benjen, too, he can he-"

"Actually," Jon interrupted, "I'm planning on going by my lonesome. I don't want this mission to be affiliated with the Watch in any way at all. They'll restrict all I can and plan to do. The Watch is on very bad terms with the Free Folk, just seeing the black of a brother would prompt them to attack."

Ned shook his head, "Jon...you can't just go alone! No matter how well you know the land, unforeseen danger can come out of nowhere. What if you're caught in a blizzard? If you run out of food? If your ambushed by wildlings or the Others? What happens then, Jon?"

"That won't happen," Jon said with uncharacteristic certainty.

"How can you be so sure of that?" Robb butt in, "We're relying on you, if you die how are we supposed to go on with this plan?!"

"You just go along with it," Jon replied, voicing it in a tone that implied it was as simple of a solution as eating when you're hungry. But his voice wavered the slightest bit, revealing a flicker of self-doubt.

"And about going alone, once I cross the wall I'll form relations with a few clans. I had friends from beyond the Wall, once upon a time, and I'm sure I can form a friendship with them again. I won't be braving everything by myself! And I won't die. The Gods allowed me to be brought back for a reason- it's fate for me to live. Magic like the Raven did that day, its powerful, otherworldly. It can't just happen without the Gods' intervention. Whoever helped send me back that day will make sure I carry out what I'm here to do."

The room's atmosphere was tense, and although everyone was itching to say something, nobody did, ignorant and hesitant with the subject of magic. Jon continued.

"Speaking of plans, we actually need to finish ours, so if, Gods forbid, something actually happens to me up north, you can carry on with the plan until I return. Or, well, by the off chance I don't come back, humanity can still be saved."

It seemed as if Jon had started to fancy himself immortal, a favorite of the Gods. Ned knew the dangers of that (usually) ungrounded arrogance. Wasn't this the man who fought battle after battle? Who nearly starved to death? This time travel business changed his son's view of himself to something larger- something unbound by the chains of death.

On the other hand, though, Ned wasn't sure just how ungrounded Jon's confidence was. He was brought back to life by the northern sun god, R'hllor, after all. And Jon's father, Rhaegar, was obsessed with prophecy. He vaguely remembered something about an Azor Ahai- the Prince That Was Promised, and a song of ice and fire. Could the silver prince's prophecies been rooted in reality? Was Jon this fabled savior?

And Jon, so distrusting of the Raven, freely accepted that the greenseer helped him, and that the Gods supported both he and the Raven. Ned became increasingly unsure that Jon had thought everything through in its entirety yet. Even if the Gods were hellbent on having him succeed, who said he wouldn't die in the process? He never had a conversation with the beings, they never told him what exactly he was to do and how it was going to happen. For all he knows, Jon could die. Then die again, and again, and again, and again. He could exist in an endless cycle of death and resurrection. Or maybe the spell would be reset. He would be sent back to the beginning, the Stark family blissfully unaware of the future. There were so many possibilities, good and bad, that Jon just hadn't thought of- or hadn't thought to share. He'd have to talk to Jon about this later.

For now, Ned tried to clear his head of these thoughts. In the long run, Jon's destiny didn't even matter because whatever he was fated to do will happen in due time, and his shortsightedness would be handled in a well-meaning discussion later that night, or in the morn.

"We should stockpile food as well as introduce new crops," his wife suggested, "And try to form good relations with the Reach, They loved Targaryen rule, and if all else fails we can reveal Jon's parentage. They'll be undoubtedly loyal if that happens."

"I'd probably have to marry Margaery Tyrell, then," Jon stated thoughtfully.

"Don't tell me you'll have a problem with that!" Robb laughed, "It's a win-win situation!"  
"Robb!" Both he and his wife scolded the heir of Winterfell simultaneously.

"This proposed alliance is for food, Robb! Survival! Not... not for whatever you're implying!" Catelyn continued.

Robbs laughter died down, sombered by the stakes of the conversation, "Just saying," he mumbled.

"And that's only is worse comes to worst," Jon added, giving his brother a pointed look, "Marriage would only tie me down, something we could hardly afford."

The room quieted, everyone collecting their thoughts. Ned absentmindedly reached over the planning board and moved Jon's figurine to beyond the wall.

"When are you planning on leaving?" he inquired.

Jon tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, "I'm not sure. I want to go as soon as possible, but I am technically still a child. No one would take me seriously."

That's why you need Benjen, Ned thought, but he refrained from voicing it aloud.

"We could make your shoes taller," Robb suggested, only half-joking, "And have you layer like crazy so you look bulkier."

"Can you grow a beard yet?" Catelyn asked, "Even if only a patchy stubble it would make you look a little older."

Jon laughed, "I frankly don't remember my beard growing skills when I was ten and three, but you two are right- there are ways to make me look older and more experienced."

He glanced around the room, "I guess I'll head out in a few moons, then. Get the ball rolling here first." Sounds of agreement echoed across the room.

"What should we do while you're away?" Ned finally asked. It felt weird, him asking Jon for instructions, but it didn't feel wrong, per say. The secret royal was certainly a natural born leader- when he talked, people listened. Rhaegar was said to be the same way.

"Rally the North," Jon replied, "Start to sever their identity from Westeros, their reliance on the South. See who's on our side truly," he shifted his gaze to look at Ned, "I would leave the Boltons out of this, though. It's up to you whether to involve the Umbers or not."

He nodded. Ned would include the Umbers. Greatjon was one of his most loyal and trusted bannerman. Shame about his son.

And he still wasn't sure about the whole secession thing. It seemed as if Catelyn and his reasoning had pushed back the possibility of the event to the far future, and that the plan was just to disassociate from the crown, now. Ned had to admit, the thought of an independent North was quite appealing. They had their own culture, practiced their own religion. But no official declarations of rebellion could or should be made for a few years yet. His sons seemed to be getting the point, albeit at a slow pace.

"I have people I can contact," Jon proceeded, "who can find out what's happening down south, and even manipulate the events from the shadows. To an extent, of course. Ravens can be sent to and fro, detailing what's happening. I'll mostly leave the response to whoever's in charge's discretion. Lady Catelyn, I was hoping that this could be you…?"

Catelyn looked surprised, "Me?"

Jon flushed and explained, "You're the only one here who actually hails from the South. And I'm sure letter correspondences don't differ too much from your normal day's work."

"Well, no," Catelyn agreed.

"Plus, you might even be able to sway someone by the name of Petyr Baelish to dish out some information."

"Petyr Baelish!" Catelyn gasped, "Little Petyr? What can he offer?"

Ned was certainly familiar with the name. He was said to harbor quite the affection for his wife. And despite seeming altogether harmless, Ned had heard, one should beware what he could do from the background.

"Information," Jon answered tersely, "He's quite good at getting his hands on information. Now I don't say you should become friends with him, just maybe hesitant allies.. If you ask, Lady Catelyn, he's sure to give. Do be careful with him, though, he has his hands on more strings then we ever could. "

Ned filed this new tidbit to the back of his mind.

"Moving on," said Jon, "We should have a safe house, of sorts. Especially with war on the horizon. Winterfell was taken in the past, and if it happens again, Gods forbid, we cannot be separated."

"Somewhere nearby, it should be," Robb added.

"Perhaps the Godswood?" Catelyn proposed.

"Nearby but not too close," Ned clarified. "The Godswood could be taken along with Winterfell."

"Maybe a place in Wintertown," Jon said, "I don't think they would rat us out."  
Ned dismissed the idea, "Too risky."

"What about that bluff?" Robb suggested, "Near the break in that river. You know, the one we used to go to as kids. There's a cave there, too. Theon and I used to climb into it. Still do sometimes, actually. We could hide provisions in there. And we won't need to worry about freshwater."

"I was actually thinking of bringing Arya there soon; It seems to be a Stark child tradition. I suppose I should extend that offer to the entire family. The trees make perfect cover overhead, and the bluff itself is cover enough from the east," Jon mentioned.

"Where is this bluff, exactly?" Ned questioned, feeling slightly left out. When had they been doing this?

"West of Winterfell," Robb responded in good grace "It's on the river the servants get their water from. Just follow the water upstream and you'll get to it soon enough. And, as Jon said, the foliage offers cover."

"I reckon that could work," Ned mused, turning his gaze to Catelyn. She nodded in approval.

"You'll have to take us there, soon, so we could scope out the area."

Robb and Jon shared a quick glance and nodded at each other, no doubt planning their trip to this ridge of theirs.

"If it works for everyone else, I say this meeting has ended. We've just about exhausted our brains for the day," Ned declared. He wasn't sure how much he could intellectually contribute to the conversation anymore- it had been a long day.

"Other aspects of the plan could be brought up whenever anyone thinks of it. Sound good?" he continued.

Jon shrugged, "Sounds good to me, father."

Ned's heart warmed at the title.

"What time is it, anyway?"

"Too late to continue talking whilst avoiding suspicion," Catelyn stated, "We should really get on with our late-afternoon routines."

They all got up, conversing amongst themselves, and left the room.

Ned rubbed his eyes and started his trek back to his solar. He had more letters to write.


	6. Jon III

**Jon III**

Jon had to admit, if he were an outsider, he would've been awfully suspicious of The Warden of the North, his wife, his heir, and his bastard son converging for hours on end every day in the room usually reserved for war councils. He would've speculated, gossipped, and shared, which, understandably, was exactly what the castle staff was doing. It was their fault really, they should've been doing it after supper, maybe, or in the wee hours of the morning.

Some people theorized they were discussing the fate of Winterfell, that Jon may become its Lord rather than Robb. Others thought that they finally became privy to the knowledge of Jon's mother, and that the Lady was so mad she was planning to send Jon as far away as possible. He'd heard that the family was pondering squireship for Jon, so that he could serve his trueborn brother when he became Lord of Winterfell. The gossip was endless, and the popularity of the subject around the castle left Jon without a doubt; they had to come up with a plausible explanation, and do they had to do it soon.

_But first, _he thought, _a little attention should be paid to those left out in the meetings._

A breeze lazily drifted through the godswood as Jon corrected Bran's stance. Arya curiously looked on.

"You have to keep your weight evenly distributed, Bran. Don't lean forwards or back."

"I am!" Bran insisted, frustrated.

"No your not," Arya said calmly from the sidelines, but there was a smirk in her voice. He shot her a warning look, hoping that Bran hadn't detected it, but was too late.

Bran whipped around and stomped his foot, "Why don't you try it then, Arya? Because I'm sure you're a master archer!"

"I might as well be!" Arya retaliated, "Give it here, I want the bow." She dove for the wooden bow in Bran's hand, but he spun out of the way.

"No, you're not getting it! It's my turn, you'll have yours next!"

"Give. it. Here." Arya shot her hand out, wrapping her little fingers around the grip and pulling. The wood of the bow groaned in stress.

"Ok, stop it you two," Jon decided to intervene, "I brought you out here to learn archery, not to quarrel. Your mother and father don't allow this- one more fight and your screwed." They backed away.

"Speaking of that, " Arya said with a slightly suspicious tone, "Why are you doing this if Mother and Father don't want you to?"

"Yeah," Bran echoed, "Why?"

_Because the Long Night still might come despite my intervention_, Jon thought, _Because there will come a time where you both must fight for your lives._

"Why not?" was what he said instead, "Bran, you're going to learn how to fight soon enough, there's no harm in getting ahead. And Arya," he hesitated a little here, trying to come up with a plausible excuse, "Whether anyone likes it or not, you'll eventually find your way to a weapon. Might as well train you instead of having you train yourself, yeah?"

The two children stared at him and he was struck with a thick sense of nostalgia. When had those eyes last been so innocent, so childlike? He remembered Bran's The Three Eyed Raven's empty chilling gaze and Arya's No One's hardened and cold eyes with a shiver.

He silently vowed to protect the siblings. Those eyes wouldn't see the horrors they once had, not if he had a say in it.

"Now keep your feet shoulder length apart," he instructed, "and keep your back straight."

He watched as Bran carefully pulled the bowstring back and narrowed his eyes upon a knot in one of the trees- their makeshift target. Arya was enraptured as well, but surely for different reasons than Jon.

Bran readied his fingers, shifted his feet, and stood up straight. Jon hummed assuringly. Bran wasn't the best archer before his fall, but he was hoping to change that. Even if Bran had to lose his legs down the line, he could still be able to practice archery in his chair. It would be very difficult and would require a ton of modifications, admittingly, but it would certainly be an easier way to protect himself compared to the sword.

The arrow flew from the bow and smacked into the tree with a thud. The wrong tree.

"Oh come on!" Bran shouted while Arya laughed in what was most likely schadenfreude.

They had a lot of work to do, it seemed. Jon vaguely wondered if it was himself that was the problem, not Bran, because although Jon was considered one of, if not the, best swordsman in the seven kingdoms by the time of his death, his bow-and-arrow skills left something to be desired.

Before the sword and spearmen would be sent into battle against the Others, archers would fire arrows encased in white-hot flame into the enemyś midst, lighting sometimes dozens on fire at once. He had always watched in fascination, and maybe a little bit of jealousy. Archers were crucial in the battles of Long Night, and, most of the time, they got to stay out of harm's way. Jon was always in the middle of things, swinging Longclaw with unbalanced vigor amongst blood and sweat and dirt and bodies. He would much prefer his siblings be the archers atop the walls, sending down lethal fiery arrows with unmatched accuracy than fighting the enemy head-on, sword to sword.

"How 'bout we take a little break," Jon suggested, "I don't think we're going to get much further in this session."

Arya groaned, "But Jon!"

Bran dropped the bow into the hard dirt and leaned against a tree.

"No need to whine," he said, "I have a fun idea to do instead."

They both perked up, looking at Jon with unhidden curiosity.

"What is it? What's your idea?"

"Go get Sansa, Robb, father, and your lady mother and I'll tell you."

Arya rushed off yelling about how she'll tell father and Robb, but Bran lingered behind, shuffling his feet.

"You want mother to come?"

Jon frowned. He supposed that if even young Bran would find it suspicious, they most definitely had to come up with some sort of cover story. Lady Catelyn's distaste for her husband's bastard wasn't necessarily a secret amongst Westeros, and her not only having meetings with Jon, but doing family activities with him was sure to raise some eyebrows.

"Yes," he answered carefully, "She is your mother, after all."

He peered at Jon for another moment, and the man was uncomfortably reminded of the Three Eyed Raven's all-knowing stare. Was Bran developing greensight abilities even now? They would be severely lacking, yes, but, similarly to warging, Bran could be having dreams, cluing him in on information he wouldn't be able to understand. Jon stored the thought in the back of his brain, deciding, when appropriate, teach the Stark children to harness their warging powers, and maybe help Bran with his greenseeing ones.

Bran grabbed the bow off the ground, turned, and ran towards the entrance of the forest.

"Arya! Wait up!"

* * *

The bluff was beautiful in the summer, Jon couldn't help but notice. The sun (oh the wonderful sun) reflected off the roaring river and illuminated the vibrant greenery around them. The cliff's limestone stood strong and dependable to the east, slanted enough to not be able to walk down it without sliding, but to still be able to easily get to the cave entrance.

"So," Robb started, "This is the bluff. Jon and I used to go here as kids. And Theon. We decided to bring you guys here as well."

Even Sansa, who was a few seconds ago complaining about her new dress getting torn by a pricker bush, was in awe at the sight.

"We've decided that this is going to be our emergency meeting spot," his father announced, "In case anything goes wrong, we meet here, okay?"

Echoes of confirmation were mumbled throughout the family.

"Now who could tell me how to get here again?" Catelyn asked, feigning forgetfulness.

"Go west to the river," Robb prompted.

"And follow it upstream!" Arya finished.

"And what does upstream mean?" Ned asked with a raised eyebrow.

The younger kids' murmurings were indecipherable.

"It means against the flow of the water," he supplied with a sigh.

They all nodded their heads.

"Jon, I thought this was supposed to be fun! Not a safety lecture!" Arya said, disappointment evident in her voice.

"Who said it wasn't fun?" He smiled, "There's a cave over there we could play in. Also, I spy a vine we could swing on. It's surely warm enough to swim."

Their faces lit up as the dashed to the bluff, trying to climb it determinedly, despite being hindered by their short legs and small hands.

"Well, I guess my dear wife and I should be heading back to the castle," his father began, "Gods know I can't keep up with those two."

"And I should be getting back to Rickon," Catelyn continued, "I don't like leaving him for so long with his nursemaid." Even with declaring this, the couple seemed to hesitate leaving. He and Robb nodded in understanding.

"We'll handle the little rascals, don't you worry a bit," Robb said.

"I've had more than enough years of experience dealing with them. I'm practically an expert by now," Jon admitted, "Go back to the castle and take in the peace and quiet. We've got everything under control here."

Ned's eyes flitted over to quarreling children in the mouth of the cave. He sighed, "Best be on with it, then."

But before they could turn around and make their way back to the castle, a messenger burst his way into the clearing.

"An important letter, my lord and lady, an important one indeed. Came just now, sir, I was told to bring it to you right away. Here it is, my lord, my lady, here it is, here it is."

He passed the thick parchment over to Jon's father, and his sharp intake of breath was audible.

Jon looked over his shoulder and felt his heart skip a beat.

It was marked with the Lannister seal.

* * *

They barged through the castle doors, startling a few servants. Almost everyone immediately stilled and unabashedly quieted in hopes of hearing what the commotion was about. They paid them no mind and continued at a quick pace to his father's solar.

"Sansa, please take the little ones to your Septa at once. If anybody stops you and asks what's happening, you shake your head and say you don't know. Clear?" Catelyn's voice sounded strained and rushed.

"Yes, mother," the ever-obedient Sansa replied, grabbing the arms of Bran and Arya and dragging them away, with only a little over-the-shoulder glance to reveal her curiosity.

Jon missed the Sansa who'd become something like a queen during the Long Night. A powerful, proud, confident woman, who'd suffered as much if not more than everyone had. She was a beacon hope in the darkness of winter. Shame she had been killed in that life, and has yet to get her head out of the clouds in this one.

His father opened the solar door, dismissing a loitering servant (who was undoubtedly going to try to eavesdrop with the excuse of cleaning that very specific piece of molding for an unusually long time) with a flick of his hand.

They all crowded around the desk, and he and Robb shared a look. It was a look of understanding on one hand and a look of agreement on another.

His father hastily broke the red wax seal and unfolded the letter.

"Read it aloud, father," Robb instructed with barely concealed energy (Jon faintly wondered whether it was the nervous or excited variety).

Ned's eyes briefly flitted over the letter's expanse before settling at the top. He sighed wearily.

"_Dear whichever Stark who happens to read this first_," His father began, eyebrows creasing in confusion.

Even though the greeting had scarcely been read, Jon was nearly convinced the letter wasn't written by Tywin. It had a certain Tyrion-esque charm about it, also one that sometimes possessed Jaime when he wasn't weighed down by the world around him.

Why were they writing? At this point in time, Jaime was the disgraced Kingslayer and Tyrion was known for nothing more than his impishness. What business would they have with The North?

He continued, " It has made itself clear that a week ago has not, in fact, happened yet, and I find that to be quite curious. In other words, I have found myself catapulted fifteen years into the past."

Jon gave a startled shout. Was it possible? That more than just he had been sent back in time to correct the future? Now that he thought about it, the Raven hadn't specified that only he would be sent back. He cursed himself for not thinking of the possibility before. The Raven had always been known to withhold information. What made him think that time was any different?

"Jon, did you know about this?" His father's voice surprised, confrontational, and maybe even a little accusing.

"I hadn't even thought of the possibility," he admitted, "but if the Lannister brothers are back, who knows who else is? People who survived up till the end, I suppose. Our opportunities- they just widened exponentially! We could do so much more even with just Tyrion and Jaime!"

"When did you gain lion-taming skills, brother?" Robb asked amusedly, "You, the Imp, and the Kingslayer. What a group."

"Their claws are just as sharp as ever, Robb, maybe even sharper. They just see the bigger picture now; they're looking beyond their own interests."

"A Lannister not acting selfishly?" Lady Stark scoffed, "What ever happened to them to cause that drastic change?" She shook her head, mumbling.

Jon nodded towards his father in an unspoken command.

_Read on._

_"If you do not know what I am talking about, stop reading now. Forget this letter, burn it if you must, dismiss it as the ramblings of a mad man. If you do, then I believe we have a lot to discuss. Please reply in haste if you know my predicament, either in experience or in stories. There are plans to be made, people to save, wars to prevent, and alliances to be formed."_

"Some of which already created and outlined by ourselves," his father added, "in our responding raven we should explain them."

"I doubt they have gone without making plans themselves, too," Jon continued, "There are many distinctive things to sort out solely among the Lannisters, and having allies within the family will undoubtedly benefit us in that regard."

Like the whole incest thing, Jon thought wryly, along with Brienne, among other matters.

_"I won't even require you wolves to trek south, "_ his father continued to read, _"for I don't doubt that our disappearances could be excused by any number of things if necessary. Cersei is the only problem when it comes to that, but we remain untouched and free from her claws for now, strengthened by the memories of her madness and years in fighting a frigid war. She is one woman, and we are two men. We know her secret and we could shout it for all of Westeros to hear if need be. All she has is an indifferent drunkard man-whore of a husband."_

The Lord of Winterfell visibly frowned at this, although Jon wasn't sure if it was the part about Robert or the part about Cersei that generated the reaction.

"She _is_ the Queen, though," said a voice to his left. He turned to look at Robb.

"She could declare treason in an instant. And we've already established that the King can't even recognize what's right in front of him," his brother continued.

Robb was right- Cersei traditionally had more power than they did. She had executive control, and troops to call to arms. Their little ragtag group, though? They had the power of pure unadulterated will. They had the power of the past, the power of the gods, the power of the people. If situations escalated to the declaration of treason, it would be really up to Tywin Lannister to decide which way the odds would lean. And that was truly unpredictable. Would he side with his daughter? His sons? Jon hoped it would never come to that.

"There's always a chance..." Jon replied hesitantly, "but I trust they could escape Kings Landing if it comes down to it. And if they die, well, I suppose we could employ the help of a red priest or priestess. Reviving people is always a tricky and hard business, but if R'hllor plays a part in this, which I suspect he does, it's most definitely a possibility."

"Do you believe in this R'hllor? Really?" Lady Catelyn asked, "Didn't the Old Gods bring you back here?"

Jon sighed, "Most directly, yes, the Old Gods brought me back in time. But what the Raven did...the amount of power...I can't rule out the involvement of other gods. And I have seen the sun god's work in action, I was brought back to life after dying by a red priestess, after all. I suppose I believe in more than one religion, then," he concluded, "I believe in what has proven itself to be true."

He had actually never thought about it before. The Old Gods he would consider his primary religion, an "if you could only choose one," if you will. But R'hllor? The Seven? The Drowned God? He couldn't discredit their existence. He nodded at his father to continue the letter.

_"I do understand that this letter will generate unprecedented amounts of hubbub around the North, and would like to propose an excuse: We are curious about whether we could buy ice and sell it down south for monetary value, that is all. Tywin Lannister will send his sons, Tyrion and Jaime, to broker a deal. Whether his sons will come back from this expedition? Well, that's not up to him, now is it?"_

He quietly snorted at Tyrion's words. He knew that even if one of the brothers return south, one would unquestionably stay north. Back then, he would guess that Tyrion would be the one to stay, drawn like a magnet to a world beyond the reaches of his sister and father, but now he had to guess Jaime to be the eventual one.

Jon winced, thinking of how terrible it must be for his friend, having to be around Cersei constantly. Staying North would be a much-needed reprieve. He blinked back into attention when his father spoke.

"We certainly have enough ice to go around," he said, "We may actually profit from it. That is if the offer seriously stands."

They nodded in agreement. Jon could barely fathom selling ice to the south, haunted by the memories of ice stretching as far as the eye could see. The fact that such a substance could be desirable baffled him personally, but he could still understand its uses. If you mix the frozen substance with salt it would stay colder for much longer, not terribly inefficient for transportation.

_"We pledge allegiance to Jon, for the ultimate goal of the prevalence of light over dark. Best regards, Tyrion and Jaime of House Lannister,"_ Ned finished.

_Well,_ Jon thought,_ that was certainly a welcome surprise._


	7. Jaime I

**Jaime I**

"Fuck this."

Jaime sighed. This was going to be a long, excruciating trip.

"How did we ever survive the Long Night? So fucking cold." Tyrion elaborated, "I feel like my dick is gonna freeze off and it's not even autumn yet."

Jaime gritted his teeth in mild frustration, "Tell me what's more important, brother, the fate of humanity or your frigid dick?"

Tyrion grumbled, "Well, since-"

He cut him off sharply, "Don't you dare say dick. Don't you dare."

Tyrion groaned, "My ass hurts, too. Couldn't we have gotten a wheelhouse?"

Jaime frowned at the horses beneath him and his brother and sighed, "I don't ride in wheelhouses. Plus, it's too much work."

"Oh!" Tyrion laughed, "Maintaining your dignity, aren't you?" His chuckles tapered down, "Brother, just think of how many things wounded your ego before we were brought back. And you say you're too proud to ride in a wheelhouse?"

Jaime sighed. More than enough things had put him in his place before they were rocketed back into the past; his brother was right in that regard. By the time he met his end, you could've even called him a man of humility. But when there wasn't, in fact, a constant threat of death, and when luxuries were free for the taking, he allowed himself to swell with a moderate amount of pride. He deserved it, especially if they were to stop the Long Night. And grown men (knights of the kingsguard, no less) riding in wheelhouses when there were perfectly fine horses were far too humiliating.

"You have to make a good impression," Jaime argued, "We don't know if Ned Stark is aware of our predicament. If we roll up in a wheelhouse it'll make the impression that we're lazy and that we haven't had to work for anything in our lives."

Although he wasn't gazing at his brother, he could still sense his eye roll.

"Please, we've got Jon to back us up. I wouldn't be worrying too much about this if I were you, brother. I would worry about this godsforsaken cold."

Jaime snorted and he could see the puff of air coming out of his nostrils, "We're not even close to Winterfell, yet. We're nearing the Neck, I presume, it's bound to be _a lot_ colder as our journey progresses. And we both know it was much colder than this during the Long Night. Has a glimpse of sun weakened you so, Tyrion?"

"Maybe it has!." Tyrion closed his eyes and tilted his head back and a ray of light caught his face through the trees, illuminating it. He sighed and a small smile came upon his lips. His quirked an eyebrow and opened an eye to peer at Jaime, "The sun's bloody amazing, you have to admit."

Jaime nodded- he did have to admit it. When he had first woken up in King's Landing he thought he had gone to the afterlife. He was _warm._ There was _light._ He sat transfixed that night, staring at the sunset over the keep. It was abstract, maybe, all pink and orange smudges and violet splatters, and light yellow streaks, but it was a gorgeous painting nonetheless. One that he knew would be etched in his memory for a long while yet.

The sun had been little more than a distant memory during the War for Dawn, a faint remembrance of warmth and a vague recollection of a yellow glow. It was so dark then. So cold. The moon had hung big and low in the sky, instilling an ominous sense of foreboding throughout all of the survivors, and the clouds were heavy and dark and had almost always spewed wet lumbering snowflakes down upon the brittle, frosted, grass. He remembered his shivering endlessly in his thinning furs and torn leather boots, cursing at the night, the cold, wights. It was a hard life. A hard, tedious, and somber life. If he had just gotten a glimpse of the sun in that time, if he had just felt its pleasant rays, Jaime's hopes would've been restored. He would fight with a reawakened vigor. He would do anything to see and feel the sun just for another fleeting moment.

"All of us are slaves of the sun, aren't we?" Tyrion remarked after a moment of silence, "Even if you immerse yourself darkness there will always be a time when you crave the light."

He agreed and their horses walked on.

Darkness was a heavy blanket that had smothered Jaime all too many times before. Cersei had been beneath the blanket for so long she had gained control over it, to use it to smother others with little to no hindrance. She had thrown that blanket over his head and by the Seven, it was oppressive and soul-sucking and bleak and _heavy._ So heavy that he couldn't lift it off him himself.

In his last life (for he had begun to call it so), he had pretended it wasn't there. Or maybe he had convinced himself that it wasn't a problem. It was though. And when you crave light but only admit it in the deepest corners of your mind it's lonely. And then the blanket gains a few pounds.

As the sky got darker and the air got colder, his soul seemed to absorb the little daylight they received. Only about a year after Cersei died, three since he had distanced himself from her, Jaime was able to finally lift the blanket and throw it into the wind. There was no sunlight left to absorb by then.

It was a weird limbo, a grey area. The clock seemed to tick, and tick, and tick, but nothing seemed to have phased him all too much. His soul was trapped in a perpetual dusk, straddling the line between dark and light in a purplish haze.

Then he woke up.

And there was light.

But there was Cersei.

He braced himself and steadied himself, preparing for the weight to settle over him once more. It wasn't that big of a deal, he came to find out. He just shrugged the blanket off when Cersei tried to entangle him in it. He just popped his shoulders up and it fell away. After carrying the weight of the world the blanket felt like nothing.

Jaime rolled back his shoulders and straightened his back before swiftly kicking his horse into a moderate trot.

"Let's make some more distance before it gets too dark to see," Jaime suggested, "Time doesn't stop even for the stars."

Tyrion rolled his eyes, exaggeratingly shivered, and huffed a burst of misty breath.

"I swear to every god that may or may not exist, Jaime, if I lose all feeling in the lower half of my body, you're gonna have to pay for my liquor for at least a moon."

"Not more than one a day, brother," Jaime said with a small laugh, "We don't want you either pissed or hungover in front of Lord Stark."

Tyrion gave an exaggerated groan but didn't refute nonetheless. But before his horse could begin a steady trot, he heard the faint sound of a twig snapping nearby. He froze, ears straining.

"What are you _doing?_" Tyrion questioned, and Jaime wanted so much for him to shut his mouth for once. "What happened to picking up the pace, brother, because it seems like you're doing the exact opposite."

Jaime steadily brought a singular finger to his lips in the universal sign for _quiet._ Tyrion raised his eyebrows, but complied nonetheless.

He slid off his horse as gracefully as he could and his boots landed in the mud with a _squelch_ and a small slide. Tyrion followed his lead. His eyes scanned his surroundings, eyeing the thick foliage with caution. He held his breath for a few seconds, listening intently to his environment.

_There!_

Jaime whipped around and drew his sword, pointing in the direction they came from. He could've sworn he heard a crumpling of leaves. He inched forward, wishing for a moment that he had eyes on both sides of his head like animals of prey did. His eyes found something on the ground any normal person wouldn't have noticed, but made his stomach lurch in sudden fear.

A misplaced rock laid atop the leaves, nothing around it of its sort. A diversion. To draw his focus away. He barely had time to draw a sharp breath before he heard a fearful gasp from Tyrion's direction and cold steal touch the collar of his shirt.

_Shit._

He turned around slowly and his heart might as well have beaten straight out of his chest. There were about six soldiers, armed, two on horseback, Jaime noticed. One had a dagger placed firmly against Tyrion's throat.

"Disobey and your brother will lose his head, kingslayer," a weathered looking man growled  
Jaime had half a mind to grab his sword and fight them off- he was one of the best swordsman in Westeros, after all. He restrained, though. Six against one was hardly an even fight, and Tyrion's throat was almost sure to be slit. Plus, that sword wobbling at his adam's apple would do nothing but harm if he tried anything.

He looked at his brother and breathed deeply. His eyes fearfully flitted to one of the older men of the group. After prying his eyes away from an ugly scar that marred nearly the entirety of the man's face, including, by the looks of his leather eyepatch, his right eye, his eyes found what Tyrion was motioning towards with a start.

He winced and decided to raise his hands shakily into the air. They were hastily and roughly yanked behind his back and tied with a slip knot.

The man wore the blue sigil of House Frey.

"Spies, you are!" A shorter man spat out, "Why else would lions be snooping in Frey territory?"

"We're to broker a deal with-" Tyrion tried to explain in haste, but was promptly cut off with a resounding shout of _Silence!_

"Say whatever you wish to the Lord when you are brought before him," one said. "We're to bring you to him. We'll get a little extra money from it, surely, and protection for the rest of our lives."

"Maybe he'll propose a ransom!" A nasally voiced one laughed, "Or keep them to do his dirty work!"

"Shut up, Randyll," the older one snapped, "We take them to Lord Frey, nothing that comes after is any business to someone like you."

His eye examined Jaime and then Tyrion almost lazily.

"Yes," He hissed, "Looks like the Lord will be in for quite a treat when he gets his hands on you two."

Looks like they weren't going to be able to get closer to Winterfell for a while.

Jaime shuddered. He wasn't even sure his father could get them out of this mess.

**A/N: I don't usually do this but here we go: Yes, I did temporarily delete this. Yes, it is back. I hope it gets as much support as it did pre-delete. And second, just to clarify a few things people were confused about in the comments, Little Finger isn't going to be trusted and/or relied upon. The people who captured Jaime and Tyrion have ulterior motives that are not clear. It may seem like a stupid move to make. It is a stupid move to make. They never once said that they were carrying out orders to capture the two. Now that that's cleared up, I hope you enjoyed it. I might add an author's note here and there to clear things up. Try to keep the comment section friendly.**


	8. Bran I

Despite being young and reckless, Bran was actually quite observant, thankyouverymuch. When he was climbing, and when the skies were clear, he could see all the way past Wintertown. He could see everything from Robb and Jon training with Master Rodrik, and Theon at one of the whorehouses, to the maid kissing the stable boy, and a small lord coming back from a hunt with a stag draped across his horse.

When he wasn't climbing, he was with people. Although a very sociable person, this was largely due to the fact that his Lady Mother hadn't allowed him to go without supervision, yet, so he was constantly accompanied by a servant, nurse, parent, sibling, or septa. He saw things about these people. He saw how they normally acted day to day, he witnessed what they did when they were in good moods and bad moods alike. He noticed their feelings, knowledge, and hopes. So that's why it was blatantly clear to Bran that there was something up with his bastard brother Jon. Robb and his mother and father, too, but it mostly revolved around Jon.

He spent more time training by his lonesome, despite seemingly getting better overnight. He spent more time with Arya and him, and even tried to allot more time to Sansa, who, because of either societal pressures or mutual estrangement, he had never been close to. He spent a lot of time in the Godswood. Sometimes Bran caught him there, his head tilted back to the sun and his fingers curled into the soil.

Bran wondered what made Jon change like that. What would make him need to feel the sun on his face, and the breeze through his hair, and his fingers rooted deep into the frozen ground.

Bran's mother, father, Robb, and Jon also were spending an unusual amount of time together. Almost every night would they converge in his father's solar and assumedly not emerge until late because Bran was usually ushered off to bed by then. Their mouths were grim lines and he could've sworn his parent's faces had started to wrinkle ever so slightly.

Was there a war on the horizon? That seemed to be a reasonable explanation. If it was, in fact, a war, he yearned so much to be old enough to fight in it. Ser Bran the Brave, he would be known as. A noble knight who could defeat even the most fearsome foes! He would save people and be hailed a hero. His statue erected in the crypts after his sure to be honorable death would show him large and muscular, with facial hair and a massive sword sheathed into a jeweled scabbard. Despite not being the heir to Winterfell, he'd make a name out of himself, yes he would!

He'd also heard through the servant grapevine that the secretive meetings could have something to do with Jon. Jon was going to take over Robb's place, he'd heard from one person. And from another he heard that the wildlings were getting out of control and Jon, with his newfound sword abilities, was going to be sent beyond the wall. Just yesterday he had eavesdropped on two cooks discussing the Lannisters and trade deals. Bran had been told that his father was the second son, and Brandon, him namesake, was supposed to be the heir of Winterfell. Even though Jon was a bastard, maybe he's preparing Jon to take over if anything ever went drastically wrong.

There was also the chance that Jon was going to be "legitimized." He hadn't known what the word meant when he first heard it, but was eventually able to find out its meaning. Jon could potentially become a Stark in name. If that was so, maybe his mother and father were readying Jon to become a minor lord of his own someday.

No matter what the explanation was in truth, Bran knew something was up, and that something seemed to be centered around Jon. Plans started to hatch in his mind. He could spy on Jon from the towers, or from the network of servant passages beneath the castle (there were often little windows leading out to the bottom floor rooms for ventilation purposes). Maybe he should just straight up ask Jon.

Jon had always been sincere, albeit solemn. That's what he liked about Jon - he didn't sugarcoat anything. Everyone else treated him like he was still a baby. Jon talked to him like he talked to any other person. He smiled when Bran told him about his knighthood ambitions and didn't shoo him away unlike Robb and Theon when he tried to tag along with the older boys. Recently, Jon had been a buzzkill with his climbing, though, which sucked.

As he readied himself to retire for the night, Bran's mind was racing with possibilities. Tomorrow he would try to get a step closer to the truth. Definitely.

His eyes slowly blinked closed and his mind was overcome by the dreamworld.

* * *

_He was at the foot of the biggest weirwood he had ever seen. It's branches reached up into astonishing heights, painting the scenery red. It was cold. Colder than he had ever experienced. Bran, being a summer-child, shallowly assumed that it must be winter, but his mind and heart knew that it wasn't just any winter. It ran deeper than that. Heavy white snow blew in long diagonal sheets, coating the frozen ground in deep layer of slush. Despite the weather, he seemed unaffected by it. The snowflakes seemed to curve around his form, or even fly straight through it. Definitely a dream, then._

_His body slowly swivelled, trying to figure out why his mind took him here, and when he was about one hundred twenty degrees done with his circle, he saw them._

_Jon was there, but he looked older. He was sporting a beard, and his hair was long. Large dark furs were draped over his shoulders, and he wore armour. His eyebrows, adorned with snowflakes, made him look tentative and resigned. His lips were moving, but Bran could hear no sound. It wasn't Jon's appearance that shook him to the core, though, it was the person Jon's eyes were gazing at so hesitantly._

_It was himself, undoubtedly. He looked older, but nothing like the man Bran envisioned himself to be when he was grown. No sword and armor was he sporting, and he was bound more or less immobile to a wooden chair. By the Seven! Is this what he becomes? His eyes were an unsettling creamy white, blank and emotionless. He looked at Jon like he was looking at a stranger, not a beloved brother._

_His eyes snapped to Jon, who began to move. He drew a knife from a scabbard, and cut a long slit into the palm of his hand. Bran looked away as the dark blood pooled in his hand, staining his pale skin a sickening scarlet. Why would Jon hurt himself like that? His curiosity won over his disgust and he forced his eyes back to Jon to see what he would do next._

_Jon took a few steps forward, and Bran had to move out of the way. He was pretty sure at this point that he was not actually there and that Jon could probably walk straight through him, but he wasn't about to let that happen nonetheless. Jon turned his hand over above the roots of the weirwood, and the blood dripped out of his hand and onto the ashen bark of the tree. It flowed down the bark thickly, leaving a trace of bright pink on the white bark. Jon then turned his head to look at future-him. Bran's eyes followed._

_His head was tilted back, his neck bent in an odd way. His eyes fluttered and the pink of his inner eyelids was briefly revealed. A chill rocketed through him, and Bran was suddenly sickened with a deep sense of foreboding rising steadily in his belly. Something unnatural was happening, he just knew it._

_A strong gust of wind rushed through the trees and seemed to circle around the weirwood's clearing, forming a small cyclone, almost. The red leaves were picked up from the ground and joined the rotations in a flurry of red. He watched as his mouth moved quickly and repetitively, chanting something probably, and just when he felt the air alight with magick, the world shifted around him._

_He was in the crypts beneath Winterfell, flanked by the imposing statues of his grandparents, Aunt Lyanna, and Uncle Brandon. The flickering of torches made the cold stone of their almost-forgotten faces seem even more eerie than usual. A drop of water fell from a stalactite and landed wetly on the tip of his nose._

_Then he noticed it - a raven that was peering right at him. It's feathers were a dark, ominous black and its hooded eyes made him squirm. Its beak opened and, to his shock, it began to talk to him._

"_Brandon Stark," it said, and its voice seemed to come from all around him, echoing in the dank chambers, "Just wait, and you'll be able to fly. So little do you know." The bird made a haunting sound which Bran assumed to be a laughter of some sort. "Your brother thinks he can change the future," it continued, "No one has that power. No one but me. Get ready, Brandon Stark, you're future has so much in store."_

Bran's eyes snapped open with the sound of the bird's laughter rattling inside his brain.


	9. AN Moved to Ao3

Hello! A little note from your author:

After deliberation, I have decided to completely move this story to Archive of Our Own (Ao3), where it is named "Summer's So Fine, But Winter Ain't Gonna Be Kind." I have decided this not only because the website is confusing, outdated, and prone to glitches, but also because I find the Ao3 community and content better. I have found myself oftentimes forgetting to even post here, and running into issues when I remember.

If you don't have an Ao3 account, don't worry! You can read and comment as a guest. You can also easily get an account. If you want one pronto, PM me with your email, because I have 8 invitations I haven't used.

I'm sorry to everyone who reads on here, but I feel like this is the best course of action.

On a side note: This story is far from being abandoned (on Ao3, that is). It will have approximately 29 chapters before the second installment of the series will start. I truly hope you continue to read and go along with me on this journey.

I just made a tumblr for my Ao3 account ( owwwwl-ao3) where my readers can ask me about anything. Feel free to say hi there. Sorry again.

Thanks for your continued support,

Your author


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